


Good Girls Get Lonely

by JasnNCarly



Series: Jon Moxley (Dean Ambrose) & You [19]
Category: Professional Wrestling, WWE, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: F/M, One Shot, Tumblr, greygirlmoxley, wwe imagine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 08:41:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19353454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JasnNCarly/pseuds/JasnNCarly
Summary: You don’t know what’s worse – being alone or stuck with company you don’t want.





	Good Girls Get Lonely

Music blares in your ears as you throw endless jabs into the heavy bag; you can’t see anything but red – a messy break up and a match of same quality. There was no way you would sleep tonight, and you just wanted to forget anything but your anger.

Throwing a fist into the bag, you feel like you’ve cracked a bone, you pause and press your head against the hard surface and push forward with your remaining strength; it suddenly stops and forces you to stand straight – your eyes struck by his navy gaze in the dim lit gym.

You step back, yanking out your earbuds and hearing your heavy breaths for the first time, “What the fuck are you doing here, Dean?”

He smirks at your brazen greeting, “Think you’re the only one who can get into a locked, dirty, deserted gym? It takes a couple bills and a threat. Simple.”

“Do I even wanna know how you  _know_  that I was here?” You grab your towel and wipe your face, using your hands to smooth your hair and gather it into a cleaner ponytail, “Nevermind. I appreciate it, but I don’t need a cheerleader right now.”

Dean steps out from behind the bag, jeans and a grey t-shirt, and throws a punch at the bag, “Guess it was true, huh?”

“Yeah, thanks for helping me figure out what cheating pig my boyfriend was.” You huff, unzipping and removing your sweatshirt; running the towel along your upper frame, you continue to slow your breathing, “He shouldn’t be seeing out of that right eye for a while.”

“Kicked his ass?”

“Nah, one good shot. I was out.” You grab your water, take a few gulps, and gesture towards the exit, “Thanks for checking on me, but I just want to be alone.”

“You need a spotter. Otherwise, you’ll be punching your way through that wall over there.”

“That’s why you’re here?” You shake your head, taking another drink, “You’re here to tell me to take my issues to the bar. Get some hard liquor into me so that we can get start trouble. Believe it or not, I am not the new third member of The Shield.”

“I know. You’re not nearly as feminine as Seth.” He laughs loud despite your jab to his bicep, stepping behind the bag, “Come on, let’s get it out of your system.”

You plug back in, giving him a doubtful look, then begin your assault on the bag again. In your mind, you see your now ex-boyfriend kissing a woman. You see him taking multiple women out. You see him kissing them…taking them to your bed.

“(Y/N)!”

His shout can be heard over your headphones, and you realize you’ve knocked him back a few steps. His concerned stare only remind you that you are foolish for trusting anyone; they remind you that you were stupid to think something would work out for you; it all has made you weak, and _you_  cannot be weak.

Screaming, you kick the bag before stepping away and covering your face with your wrapped hands. This is why you wanted to be alone. You wanted to fall apart alone. You wanted to suffer through this alone, without an audience.

When his hand touches your shoulder, you spin around to face him – a look warning him to keep his distance. You hope to play your tears off as sweat, picking up your towel to wipe your face again. The minute the fluffy cloth touches your face – you see your ex again. He’s smiling as he tells you everything will be okay; the two of you will make it no matter what. You can trust him.

The tears are worse. You draw in and release a shaky breath, throwing your towel at the floor and moving to the boxing ring. Sitting on the apron, you wrap your arms around the second rope and shut your eyes tight. You have to get it together.

“Did he say anything?”

“Does it matter?” Your tone warns him to maintain the distance between you, “I knew. He knew that I did. I just—told him my friend was coming to change locks day after tomorrow. He better be gone by then.”

Dean takes a cautious seat next to you, “Do you need helping boxing his shit and getting it out? Roman could help breaking it all.”

You smile, genuine relief at his suggestion, “My friends are ride or die. I know they got that covered but thanks.”

“Okay,” Dean looks behind you then to the equipment, “Then, I’ll help you now.”

You watch as he grabs some heavy bag gloves near the ring, then he signals you with a head tilt to follow him. Hoping the crying bit of this business is done, you hope you can get mad again. You dip between the first and second rope to face him as he lifts his hands. Seeing his arms flex without his trying, you become slightly cloudy and throw some lighter throws.

“That’s it?”

His question takes you aback, insulted. You give a sarcastic smile, throwing somewhat harder jabs. Dean knows his challenge has pushed you back to where you were; so, of course, he continues to taunt you about your strength. He avoids the ex-boyfriend situation; still, one comment about how cute you are when you’re mad caused you to nail him in the gut.

He doubles over, back up to the rope, and you flood with remorse, “Oh my God, I’m sorry!” You rush over to him as he leans on the rope for support; though your hands are rough and taped, your fingers lift his chin, “Are you okay?”

“Well, you did kinda warn me to leave.” Dean drops the gloves, rubbing his stomach, “Remind me never to ask you to punch me as hard as you can.”

“Yeah, like you listen to me.”

“I do.” His response stuns you into silence, unsure of how to take his serious answer; you’re confusion reaches a new level as his hand reaches out to touch your cheek, “You have to know he’s a dumbass.”

You try to bow your head, sure you can’t take a compliment right now; he prevents it, cupping your chin. He looks at you in a way you can’t remember, in a way you don’t know that you can accept. You offer a small smile, wanting to thank him but failing to find the words, so you lean over to kiss his cheek. Instead, his lips are on yours as his hands frame your face. You want to resist; you could screw one of your closet friends/allies – figuratively and literally; yet you can’t help but allow him to deepen the kiss. Once his tongue is in your mouth, his fingers gripping your hair to prevent escape, your tense hands ball his shirt into your fists. This is not the signal you should give him, but you can’t find your ‘give a fuck’.

You go from feeling like a ton of bricks to feather light as he eases you to the mat of the ring. It makes no sense for the two of you to get tangled up in each other, but you can’t fight him as he pulls his shirt overhead. When he leans in, kissing you again, you can feel him hard against you. You want to ask him what the hell the two of you are doing; but you don’t. Instead, you pull him to you by his shoulders and welcome him closer by tying your legs around his waist.

Dean groans in response, almost clawing at you, but manages to restrain himself by latching his hands on your hips. When you feel his fingers slip beneath your waistband, you lift up so that he can expose your body from the waist down. Once he has, you wonder if he’s changed his mind until he starts to fumble with his jeans, taking a condom out of his back pocket and slipping it on. For a second, you wonder if he planned this; but, again, you decide you don’t care.

He stares down at you, and you reach out to him to give the okay. The kiss he places on your mouth is tender while he enters you; you throw your head back, feeling relieved and rejuvenated at the same time. It should not feel this good to be with him; yet it is everything you have been missing in your relationship, the one where your man was getting what he could from whoever he could. The thought triggers you to roll over on top of him, and you both groan as he’s driven further into you. You dip down to kiss him once more, his fingers gripping the fabric of your sports bra until you allow him to remove it.

Hugging yourself and pinching your lips together, you try to be mindful of what you’re doing; somehow embarrassed that you’ve gone so far beyond the point of no return. Sitting up, Dean grabs a handful of your hair and pulls you in again. His other hand takes each of yours, patient as he completes the action, and wraps your arms around him. Once he’s done so, he places a hand on your hip and breathes against you lips, “Come on, (Y/N).”

You start to ride him again, shutting your eyes and focusing only on he makes you feel. Your grip gets tighter on him, his fingers digging into your muscle as you feel yourself tighten around him; when you’re close you try to slow down, only to have him guide you again, so that the your moans are echoing in the ring. You two continue to move even after you hear him groan for his completion. When your world finally stills again, you realize your embracing him in all possible ways as though he is a life vest and your drowning.

You’re afraid to look him in his eyes, knowing that the two of you have crossed a pretty definitive line. You’re scared to lose him as he’s one of the few people you can count on right now. When you feel his hand loosen its chokehold on your hair, you pull away just enough to look down into his eyes. Your eyes must say everything as his thumb runs over your lips, “Don’t overthink this, (Y/N).”

You’re tempted to ask him if that means forget it until his lips catch yours again, leaving a promise that you’ll figure it out eventually.


End file.
